


casablanca

by digorykirke



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Casablanca AU, F/M, M/M, caspian is ilsa, i changed a lot though, i lifted some direct quotes but i mostly went off of memory with this, peter is rick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:42:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29854116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digorykirke/pseuds/digorykirke
Summary: of all the gin joints, of all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine.
Relationships: Caspian/Peter Pevensie, Caspian/Ramandu's Daughter | Liliandil
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this kinda deteriorated by the end bc i got tired but i love this movie,, also idk why sopespian is renault i couldn't think of anyone else and i like sopespian better than glozelle for no apparent reason so yeah i think that's it i think there's a lot of typos bc it's the middle of the night goodbye

_With the_ _coming_ _of the Second World War, many eyes in_ _imprisoned_ _Europe turned hopefully, or desperately, toward the_ _freedom_ _of the Americas._

 _Lisbon_ _became_ _the_ _great_ _embarkation point. But not_ _everybody_ _could_ _get to_ _Lisbon_ _directly, and so, a tortuous, roundabout_ _refugee_ _trail_ _sprang_ _up. Paris to Marseilles,_ _across_ _the Mediterranean to Oran, then by train, or auto, or foot,_ _across_ _the rim of Africa to_ _Casablanca_ _in_ _French_ _Morocco._

 _Here, the_ _fortunate_ _ones,_ _through_ _money, or influence, or luck,_ _might_ _obtain exit_ _visas_ _and_ _scurry_ _to Lisbon, and from_ _Lisbon_ _to the New World._

 _But the_ _others_ _wait in_ _Casablanca_ _\-- and wait — and wait — and wait._

_________________________________________________

“Pardon, pardon, Monsieur, pardon Madame, have you not heard?” The Frenchman stumbled over to the table where a tall Englishman and his _much_ younger wife sat. The liquid in his drinking glass jumped as he fell into the chair, visibly drunk.

If bothered, the Englishman did not show it.“We hear very little, and we understand even less.” the man said shortly, plastering on an easy smile to mask his discomfort.

“Two German couriers were found murdered in the desert... the unoccupied desert.” the Frenchman continued, “This is the customary roundup of refugees and liberals for Monsieur Sopespian, the Prefect of Police.”

He stood up quickly, his eyes panning over to the window, where he gazed out onto the bustling streets for a moment, before turning his attention back to the couple. “Unfortunately, along with these unhappy refugees, the scum of Europe has gravitated to Casablanca.” he added, voice dripping with contempt, “Some of them have been waiting years for a visa.” He tipped the glass back and forth between his fingers.

The woman nodded, taking another sip of her drink, as her husband put his arm around her, glaring up at him.

“I beg of you, Monsieur, watch yourself.” The Frenchman shook his head. “Be on guard. This place is full of vultures, vultures everywhere, everywhere!” as his voice rose to a shout.

“Get out of here,” a man in a white tuxedo snarled, taking a long drag from his cigarette, “Fearmongerer,”

“Why, I never!” He turned up his nose and marched out the door, but not before he glanced back at the man and the couple.

“Good riddance,” he muttered.

“You must be Monsieur Peter,” the Englishman said brightly, extending his hand, “owner of this establishment,”

Peter nodded once, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand as he stared off and took yet another drag of the cigarette.

The man put his hand down, convinced that perhaps Peter did not mean to be standoffish and was perhaps just, otherwise occupied at the moment.

He watched disappointedly as he turned back to his haunt in the corner, where he sat with his glass, his cigarettes, and his old wooden chessboard as if he were returning to the shadows themselves.

Just like any other day, the Cafe buzzed with people. Karl, the maitre d’ entered the dining room as he adjusted his glasses, and set a tray down at the table where the man and his wife sat, apparently still thinking of how Peter had snubbed them. The woman waved over Karl, smiling, “Uh, waiter,” she said politely.

“Yes, Madame?” Karl said, hunching over to listen to her. 

“Will you ask Monsieur Peter if he'll have a drink with us?” she smiled towards where he sat.

Karl laughed. “Madame, he never drinks with customers. Never. I have never seen him.”

The other woman sighed, tipping back her glass, ”What makes saloonkeepers so snobbish?”

The man cleared his throat, as he slid a note over to Karl, “Perhaps if you told him I ran the second largest banking house in London?’

“The second largest?” Karl waved the idea away with his hand, as he pocketed the money, “That wouldn't impress Peter. The man who runs the first leading banking house in London is now a chef in our kitchen!” he quipped, before walking away.

__________________________________

Peter moved another piece on the chessboard, intently focused on the game, before flipping the board and lazily moving another piece.

“Peter?” a small voice called. Peter looked up to see Eustace, nervous and skinny as ever, settle into the seat in front of him.

‘Eustace,” 

Eustace looked over the crowd, gathered all over the cafe, “One would think you’d been doing this your entire life,” he said, “I never would’ve thought when you first came to Casablanca,”

Peter didn’t answer.

Eustace sighed. “You despise me, don’t you?

“If I ever thought about you,” Peter answered, “maybe I would,”

“Good,” Eustace said, looking both ways before sliding a letter across the table to him. Peter looked at it blankly. “Just because you despise me, you are the only one I trust,”

“The letters of transit out of Casablanca,” he breathed in sharply, “signed by the general, unable to be rescinded or retracted. No doubt stolen from the two murdered German couriers,” He shook his head, “I won’t take this,”

“You have to,” Eustace pleaded. “Keep it safe for me,”

Peter hesitated, before sliding the letters into the breast pocket of his coat. He suddenly got up and walked over to where Lucy sat playing the piano, leaving Eustace behind, and tucked the letters into the space underneath the hood of the instrument when he thought no one was looking.

“Busy day, today,” Peter commented nonchalantly, leaning over the piano, “there are lots of people here,”

“There are always a lot of people here,” Lucy replied, standing up and tucking the sheet music under her arm.

“You’re leaving,” Peter said.

“I’m not your employee,” she answered, “I’m under no obligation to stay here,” She paused, “and you’re under no obligation to either. You could come home, at least once in a while,”

“This is home,” he answered mechanically.  
  
“Yes, I’m sure your brooding post in the dark corner is,” she said flatly. _What happened to you? Why do you act like this? Why don’t you ever come home?_ But if she wondered these questions, she never asked.

“I-” Peter began, quickly interrupted by the merry voice of Captain Sopespian, smiling from his starched beige uniform, which was somehow still crumpled at the hems.

“Take a walk with me?” he asked.

Peter nodded briskly, putting his hands in the pocket of his coat, and following Sopespian outside.

Sopespian lit a cigarette and looked up to the sky as a small plane flew over Casablanca to the world beyond. “The plane to Lisbon,” he commented.

Peter was silent.

“Peter, I have often wondered why you and your brood stay cooped up in Casablanca instead of returning home to England,” he shook his head, “perhaps you ran off with a member of parliament’s wife. Maybe you ran off with an old widow’s funds. I would not be surprised if you’d killed a man,” I did all three,” he deadpanned.

“I’d expect no less from the great Peter Pevensie,” Sopespian chuckled. He paused. “There’s a murderer in there tonight,” he gestured back to the building.

“Is there?” Peter said evenly, thinking of Eustace.

“There is,” Sopespian said proudly, “and we’re going to arrest him _tonight_. Think of it as a nice show for you customers,”

“I’m sure it will be,” 

“Peter,” he said, “why _did_ you come to Casablanca,”

“For the tropical forest and the lush waters,” he replied.

“What waters? This is a desert.”

“It appears I’m a victim of false advertising,” he shrugged and headed back inside. 

“You know, we leave you open because even though there are many exit visas sold in Casablanca, you’ve never sold one,”

“I thought you left me open because you enjoy my company,”

“Why not both?” Sopespian countered, “and there is something else. There is a man who's arrived in Casablanca on his way to America. He will offer a fortune to anyone who will sell him an exit visa. Well, two exit visas. But I know we won’t have to worry about that with you,”

 **“** Two exit visas?” Peter asked, feigning interest.

“He’s traveling with a woman,” Sopespian explained.

“Then he’ll leave by himself with one,”

“You’re always so cynical. If he didn’t leave her behind, then he won’t leave her now,”

“Then he must be very loyal,” he said dryly, “What’s his name?” 

**“** I believe he goes by Caspian.”

Peter felt himself go cold. “Caspian?

Sopespian watched his reaction curiously.

 **“** Peter, that is the first time I have ever seen you so impressed.”

Peter took a deep breath. Plenty of people must have that name. “I’ve never heard of him,”

“It is my job to make sure no one ever does. To make sure he never reaches America. Caspian will never leave Casablanca,”

“Well, that’s good for him,” he responded, heading back inside, Sopespian behind him.

___________________________________________________

Eustace sat at the table, thinking anxiously of the two exit visas left with Peter and the profit they’d make sold to another trapped occupant of Casablanca, eager to escape, just like half the city. His thoughts were interrupted by a tall man in a beige uniform. _An officer._

“Monsieur Scrubb,” he asked.

“Yes?” he replied, shaking as he settled his hands into his pockets.

“You’ll have to come with us,”

“Yes, yes,” he mumbled, “of course,”

He looked both ways before he tried to run, but got grabbed by another officer.

“Peter!” he cried, struggling against the officers, “Peter! You have to help me!”

There was not a moment of hesitation before he pushed him back to the officers, “I stick my neck out for nobody,” he said tonelessly, heading back into his office, far, far away from Eustace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise the trains are canonically in casablanca and not something i came up with to torment you bc ,, trains yk 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/track/5X0M16GjlZYN1WjPNzerb5?si=rstPGfDzRoOohK8Xde5jkQ

_Peter’s Cafe Anglais,_ the large sign in front of the building read.

Caspian wiped his sweaty hands on his coat jacket as we walked through the door, side by side with Lilliandil and this incompetent and foolish officer who had, most unfortunately, been trailing them since he and Lilliandil had arrived in Casablanca few days prior.

The cafe was buzzing with music and people, laughing and talking, as if they weren’t trapped in Casablanca, just like all who ventured here.

He pulled out a chair for Lilliandil and himself and settled down.

“It’s very busy here,” Lilliandil commented, her eyes wandering throughout the cafe.

“It always is,” Sopespian answered, “Everybody comes to Peter’s,”

“And where is the Peter who owns this cafe?” she asked.

“Peter, Peter,” Sopespian chuckled, leaning back, “A most enigmatic fellow. If I were a young woman such as yourself, I should be in love with him,”

Caspian made no comment, wringing his hands under the table, knowing damn well you didn’t have to be a young woman to be in love with him.

“But let’s talk about you,” Sopespian continued.

They all nodded, and Caspian threw back another drink, his eyes searching across the room and finally settling on a familiar face.

________________________________________________________________________

Lucy had noticed Caspian the second he had walked in the door, with the tall blonde woman behind him. She glanced again, trying to make sure her eyes didn’t deceive her.

It was him.

She focused back on her shaking hands and on tapping out a tune on the piano but felt her attention turning back to him as he pulled out the chair for the woman and then sat down himself.

Lucy observed him silently when suddenly his eyes met hers and then widened with recognition. He glanced both ways at his companions before gesturing to her.

She debated whether she should interact with him, before lifting the bench she had been sitting on onto the top of the piano wheeling the piano over to him.

“Hello, Lucy,” he said, as she set the bench back on the floor.

“Caspian,” she answered stiffly, as she sat back down, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you again,”

“It’s been a long time,”

“Yes,” she said, flipping the page of the sheet music.

Caspian paused. “Play one of the old songs,”

She ignored him.

“Where’s Peter?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” she took a deep breath, “he went home early,”

“You were never a good liar, Lucy,”

“Leave him alone,” she stopped playing and looked up at him, “You’re no good for him,”

Caspian’s gaze softened. “Play the song. One more time, for old times’ sake,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Play ‘As Time Goes By’,”

“I don’t remember it,” she replied quickly, hoping he’d drop it.

“It goes like this,” he started humming the tune.

Lucy slowly moved her fingers over the keys of the piano, playing the familiar tune.

“Sing it,” Caspian said quietly.

She nodded quickly, “ _You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh,”_ she continued, “ _The fundamental things apply, as time goes_ —”

Suddenly a loud noise came from the doors to the back and Lucy immediately lifted her fingers off the instrument.

“Lucy, didn't I tell you never to play that song again—“ Peter said, barging in angrily when he looked up and saw _him_. He froze, feeling as if the air had been removed from his lungs, feeling his voice and his limbs lock up.

Caspian didn’t say anything either, as if they stood suspended.

Peter didn’t answer for a long moment as he stood there surveying him, thinking it over, turning it over in his mind.

“You were asking about Peter!” Sopespian said, snapping them out of their stupor, “Here he is, in the flesh,”

“Hello, Caspian,” Peter said shortly.

“Hello, Peter,” he answered under his breath, shrinking back into his seat.

“And this is Lilliandil,” Sopespian continued, gesturing to a blonde woman, who might’ve been very beautiful if Peter had taken any stock in women, “his wife, I believe?”

Caspian nodded in confirmation, eyes glued downwards so he wouldn’t have to meet Peter’s eyes.

 _His wife._ Peter thought, the words drumming in his mind.

“Hello,” he said finally, outstretching a hand to her.

Lilliandil shook his hand, forcing a demure smile. “Won’t you join us for a drink?”

“Oh, no,” Sopespian began, “Peter never—”

“Thank you,” Peter interrupted, pulling out a chair and sitting down, “I think I will,”

Sopespian looked at him quizzically, “Well, this is a first,”

“This is a most wonderful cafe,” Lilliandil spoke, striking up a conversation, “my congratulations to you,”

“And mine to you,” Peter replied.

“For what?”

Peter felt his eyes flutter to Caspian and immediately looked away, “On making such a hard journey to Casablanca,” he answered, recovering quickly.

“I see,” she said, the entire table falling silent.

“Peter,” Sopespian said slowly, “You never mentioned you knew Caspian,”

“We’ve met—” Peter started.

“In Paris,” Caspian finished, speaking for what felt like the first time. His eyes met Peter’s as he nodded.

“Yes,” he answered, “It was Paris. Not an easy thing to forget,”

“I remember every detail,” Caspian spoke again.

Peter broke eye contact and looked back down at his shoes, feeling as if he might’ve seen straight through his eyes to his soul in those few moments.

“It’s almost curfew,” Lilliandil spoke, breaking the silence as frowned at the clock, “I suppose we’ll have to go. I hope we haven’t overstayed our visit,”

“Not at all,” Peter murmured.

“Your check, sir,” the waiter arrived, heading towards Caspian.“I’ll take it,” Peter said suddenly.

“You will?” Sopespian said curiously, “another first,"

“We’ll come again,” Lilliandil said.

“Anytime,” Peter faked a small smile.

“Goodbye,” said Caspian, glancing back at him, words unsaid buzzing through the air.

Peter paused. “Goodbye,” And he watched as they left through the door, leaving nothing but the check in his hand.

_______________________________________________

It was almost the middle of the night, and it seemed as if Peter were determined to drink himself to death.

“Stop that,” he heard a voice say. Edmund.

“Come home with us, Peter,” Lucy pleaded, “Susan’s waiting,”

“Later,” he muttered.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Edmund insisted, “Just come home and we can forget he ever came here and Lucy and I will make sure that he’ll never come in here again—“

“Play it,” Peter interrupted, looking at Lucy.

She didn’t move. 

“Don’t do it,” Edmund groaned, “Just—“

He took another swig. “You played it for him. You can play it for me,”

Edmund opened his mouth as if to say more, but Lucy tapped his arm and he relented.

“If he can stand it, I can,” he said finally.

She set the bench on the ground and sat down, hands covering over the instrument. “Take the harmony?” she whispered to Edmund. He nodded.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that the entire world seemed as if it were collapsing and his brother and sister seemed to be focused on performing a duet.

 _“You must remember this; a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh,”_ the song began, and he was thrown into the memories he tried so long and so hard to suppress.

_____________________

“The fundamental things apply, as time goes by,” _Lucy sang along to the music from the piano, until her hands stumbled and she hit a wrong note. She paused and frowned._

_“That’s a very pretty song, Lucy,” Caspian said, “When did you learn to play it?”_

_“A while ago,” she said, “Edmund showed me. Do you like it?”_

_“Of course,” Peter said encouragingly._

_“It’s a beautiful song,” Caspian said, and Lucy beamed._

_They had met Caspian only a few weeks ago, and he’d been stuck to them since. He fit perfectly with their family, as if he’d been meant to be part of it. Lucy smiled at that thought_

_“I can play it better,” Edmund interrupted, sliding next to her on the bench, “without stumbling,” he added with a grin._

_“Edmund,” Susan scolded, “don’t be rude,”_

_“I was only teasing!” he laughed, “We can play a duet,”_

_“I‘d like to hear it,” Caspian said, and even Peter smiled as the song began again._

__________________________________________

_It had been a month since they’d arrived in Paris, and Caspian had been there right there with them— especially with Peter. They drank champagne, they went in a boat down the Seine, they drove through the city, they had breakfast at_ La Belle Aurora _. Everything was idyllic, perfect, flawless._

_“Where did you come from, before this?” Peter asked finally, one day, smoking in the familiar fire escape where they carried most of their conversations, “Why did you come to Paris?”_

_Caspian frowned, beginning to speak._

_“Sorry,” he said quickly, “I forgot. No questions,”_

_“At any rate,” Caspian grinned, “I’m happy to be here. With you,”_

_He flushed. “I’m happy to be here with you,” he replied. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,”_

_________

_The summer had turned to autumn, and the leaves from green to red, but like every night, Peter and Caspian were out on the fire escape, breathing in the chilly air and the smoke from their cigarettes._

_“Do you think you’d ever want to be married to someone someday?” Caspian asked suddenly, lighting a cigarette and bringing it to his lips._

_“I don’t know,” Peter answered, leaning against the rail of the fire escape as he looked off into the sky, “I’ve never thought about it,”_

_“You haven’t?”_

_He hesitated, but then resolved to speak. “I don’t think I feel for women,” he shifted his weight, “what I should,”_

_He looked over at him and waited. Waited for him to perhaps call him perverted, maybe throw the cigarette at him, maybe stomp out and leave and refuse to ever see him again._

_“Then who do you feel for?” he asked softly._

You, Caspian. You _, he thought._

_“I don’t know,” he said, his voice shaking._

_“I know who_ I _feel for,”_

_Peter waited again. Waited for him to tell him about some girl he’d met, maybe someone he’d like to marry. He knew so little about him, anyway. Maybe that’s why he had asked about his plans._

_“Who is it?” Peter asked, inhaling the smoke from his own cigarette._

_“You, Peter. You,”_

_He froze, thinking he had perhaps heard things, that his mind was conjuring what wasn’t there just because he wanted to hear it so badly._

_Caspian looked crestfallen. “You don’t feel the same,” he said, crushing the cigarette butt under his heel, “I’m sorry,” he continued, breathing hard, “I should leave,” he added, starting to walk back inside._

_Peter grabbed his arm, “No!” he said sharply, “don’t leave,” he said quietly, “I— I don’t not feel the same,”_

_A small smile crept across Caspian’s face. “You don’t not feel the same,” he repeated. Peter nodded. “Then you won’t mind this,” he said, grabbing the lapels of his coat and pulling him in, their foreheads touching, “Do you?” he breathed._

_No, he shook his head, his heart beating fast._

_“Good,” he said, pressing his lips to his, making him swear he could see the Paris stars with his eyes closed._

_“Come with me,” Peter said, pulling away._

_“Come with you where?” he asked._

_“I don’t know,” he answered, “We can get on a train together, you, me, and Edmund, and Lucy, and Susan, and we’ll— we’ll get on a train that never stops,”_

_“Of course I’ll come with you. I’ll go with you anyplace,” he chuckled, “even on this train that never stops,”_

_“Tomorrow,” he blurted out, “We can all get on the train to Marseilles,”_

_“Tomorrow?”_

_“Tomorrow,” he said, “Before the Germans cross into Paris,”_

_“I’ll go,” he grinned, “I’ll go,”_

_“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Peter said finally, this time pulling him in, “Than here with you,”_

_——————————————-_

_He stood in the pouring rain at the train station, the hustle and bustle of Paris all around him. People getting on the trains, people leaving. Going here and there. Everyone in the world seemed to be here, except for him._

_“I’ll go back and check for him,” Edmund reassured him, “I’m sure he’s just running late. You stay with Lucy and Susan,”_

_He nodded numbly._ He said he’d be here, _he thought,_ He’ll be here.

_It seemed as if hours had passed when Edmund returned._

_“Peter!” he called, running through the rain to him, “No sign of him. Someone left this for you, though,” he said grimly._

_It was a piece of paper, folded twice, on it written, Peter. He opened it, not caring that it was getting soaked as the rain poured down on it._

_“What does it say?” Edmund asked._

Peter,

I cannot go with you, or see you ever again. You must not ask why. Just believe that I love you. Go.

Caspian.

_He stared in silence as the ink bled through the wet paper, until it slipped from his hands._

_“Peter! Edmund!” he heard Susan call, from what felt from a million miles away, “It’s the last call! Come and get on,”_

_Edmund picked it up, scanning over it quickly, “Oh, Peter,” he said softly, “I’m sorry,” he glanced back at the train, and pressed the letter back in Peter’s hand, “We have to go,”_

_“You don’t—“ Peter began. Edmund understood._

_“No,” he shook his head, “you loved him, and he must’ve loved you back. It’s as simple as that.”_

_He paused._

_“I don’t care,” he tried to find the words, “Neither do Susan and Lucy,”_

_Peter nodded, staring down at the paper in his hand, feeling as if Edmund were speaking from underwater._

He said he’d be here, _he thought hopelessly, one last time._

_________________________________

“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” he muttered, snapping out of his vision, “he walks into mine,”

The door rattled, and Peter turned his head as the music stopped. “Peter?” asked a voice. Caspian.

“Caspian, I think you should go—“ 

Lucy grabbed his arm, “Leave them,” she said, worry all over her face. “Come on,”

“Peter,” Caspian began again when it was just them, “In Paris,”

“Why did you come here?” he asked, “I wish you hadn’t,”

“I wouldn’t have if I knew you were here,”

“I wish you had never walked in here and I wish I’d never have to see you again,” he continued, “In fact, it’s funny how your voice never changes. I can still hear it— ‘Peter, dear, I’ll go with you anyplace. We’ll get on a train together and never stop.’”

Caspian flinched. “I still—“

“Tell me, who was it you left me for? Was it her or were there others in between? Or maybe you’re the kind that doesn’t tell,”

“Fine,” he snapped, as he backed towards the doorway, “I won’t beg you to listen to me. You never did, anyway,” 

“That’s good,” Peter muttered, “Go on and leave. Come around again and I’ll throw you into the Atlantic,”

“I’d like to see you try,” he retorted as he left, his footsteps echoing down the stairs, leaving Peter all alone.

____________________

Caspian’s head buzzed as he left the room, headed back to the door from where he had entered when he caught sight of Edmund and Lucy, sitting down at a table near that entrance, seemingly waiting for Peter.

Edmund stood up a the sight of him, and Lucy followed.

“Edmund,” Caspian greeted them politely, “Lucy,”

No answer. 

Lucy shifted her weight to her other foot uncomfortably, hugging the stack of sheet music in her arms to her chest.

“Did you love him?” Edmund asked finally, breaking the silence.

Caspian nodded once, “Yes,” he said quietly.

His gaze hardened. “Then you should’ve shown it before,” he opened the door, and gestured him out, “Don’t come back,” He hesitated before speaking again, “you’re bad luck to him,"

Caspian looked back one more time to the back room from where he’d come before leaving. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // mention of suicide

It was early morning and the bright light of Casablanca filtered in through the window as Caspian and Lilliandil stood outside of the door. Caspian glanced once at the plate on the door that read  _ CAPTAIN SOPESPIAN, CAPTAIN OF POLICE,  _ and then back at Lilliandil before knocking twice on the door.

They stood there for a few moments before it swung open, “I am delighted you came in to see me, just as I had asked,” Sopespian said, opening the door and ushering them into his office, “and without a fight,”

Caspian snorted, knowing full well he could not be arrested without evidence in French Morocco as if this were Germany or Occupied France.

“It’s funny isn’t it,” he continued, “Young Caspian run off from his uncle to France to become a rebel. Did you have a good night’s rest?” he asked patronizingly.

“I did,” he replied sharply,.

“That’s strange,” he answered, “No one is supposed to have a good night’s rest in Casablanca,” There was a long pause. “I believe you showed an interest in Monsieur Scrubb last night?” he brought up.

“That’s right,” Caspian affirmed. “I'd like to speak with him,”

“You might have some trouble with that,” he chuckled, “he’s dead. Haven’t quite decided if he committed suicide or died trying to escape. I assume he won’t be able to sell you any exit visas now, unless by a miracle,”

_ And miracles are outlawed in Casablanca,  _ Caspian thought bitterly as he felt all his hopes deflate. He had been depending on those letters to leave Casablanca. He looked over to Lilliandil. What would happen now?

“You’ll never leave Casablanca,” Sopespian continued, as if he could hear his thoughts, “at least not alive, you won’t,”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that!” Lilliandil snapped, linking Caspian’s arm with hers.

“Go on,” he gestured to the door, “You can leave this office, but you won’t leave Casablanca. No one will sell you an exit visa. You’ll die here, one way or the other,” 

“Come on, Lilliandil,” Caspian muttered, not breaking eye contact with Captain Sopespian, “We’re leaving,”

“Sit back down,” he said, waving his hand, “There is another way,” He looked thoughtful, “You could give us a list of all your contacts in the French Resistance and we’d take you back to Occupied France,”

“Well, that sounds like such a bargain!” he drawled, “No way in hell. Not as long as I live,”

“You’re such a patriot, aren’t you?” he mocked, “Well, Caspian, as long as you live may not be long,”

“We’ll see about that,” he answered, slipping his hand into Lilliandil’s as he stormed out of the room, “I swear I’ll find my way out of Casablanca,” he said angrily, “if it’s the last thing I do,”

_______________________________________________

“Peter!” called Signor Ferrari, “Fancy seeing you here, at the  _ Blue Parrot, _ ” he grinned.

“I’m just here to pick up my shipments,” he said dryly, “there’s no need to make conversation,”

“But I have so much to speak to you about,” Ferrari said, “Come, have a drink,”

“One,” he answered harshly. Just one and he could get it over with and leave.

“Sit down,” he gestured to the table. Peter obliged.

“What is it, Ferrari?” he rolled his eyes.

“I assume you know Scrubb is dead. What a pity,”

“Don’t lie,” he said, looking around disdainfully, “you didn’t care for him any more than I did,”

“Perhaps not,” he answered, thoughtful, “but I did care about the two exit visas he was carrying,”

“I bet everyone in Casablanca does,” he glared, “Can I go now?”

“No!” he snapped. He paused and then developed a friendlier manner again, “I’ve reason to believe you have the visas. In fact, I do believe it,”

“Then you’re in good company because I bet Sopespian thinks so too,” he replied, tipping back the glass. “That’s why I came here. Give him a chance to ransack my place,”

“I’m willing to make you a proposition,” Ferrari said quietly, “If by any chance, the letters made it into my possession, I could compensate you quite handsomely for them. I’d handle the risk of selling them,”

“I’m sure that  _ would  _ be a good proposition,” Peter said, getting up, “If I had the letters, which I don’t,”

“If you do, by some twist of fate,” he pressed, “You know where to find me,” 

“That I do,” he responded.

“Signor Ferrari?” a familiar voice called, “Could we speak?” Ferrari turned around to face him.  _ Caspian. _

His eyes met his, and they stayed there for a long moment until his wandered to the way his arm linked with his pretty wife’s. It was almost sickening.

“Monsieur,” Lilliandil greeted him, breaking him out of his train of thought.

“Lilliandil,” he forced out in return. He turned to Ferrari. “I’ll have to go now,” he said stiffly, picking up his package.

“Remember what I told you about!” Ferrari called as he left.

____________________________

“Where can I find a Signor Ferrari?” Caspian had asked a man in the  _ Blue Parrot _ , “I need to speak with him,”

The  _ Blue Parrot  _ was loud and boisterous, but nothing like the clean, polished, and especially pretentious  _ Cafe Anglais _ .

_ The Cafe Anglais _ .  _ Peter _ . He forced himself to stop thinking of him.

He had heard Ferrari was in the business of selling exit visas to people looking to leave Casablanca, and they were sure looking to leave this godforsaken city.

“Over there,” the man gestured to a loud man in a fez, who was laughing with a customer, it appeared, whom he could not see clearly.

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Signor Ferrari?” he asked, interrupting his conversation and tapping him on the shoulder, “Could we speak?”

And when Ferrari had turned, that’s when he had noticed him.  _ Peter.  _ That was who Ferrari had been talking to.

If anyone spoke after that moment, he did not hear it over the blood pounding in his ears as he looked at him. How had he forgotten how blue his eyes were?

“I’ll have to go now,” he heard him say, distantly. He resisted the urge to turn his head to watch him as he left the  _ Blue Parrot. _

“Now what do you need me for?” Ferrari asked, turning his attention back to them.

Caspian took a deep breath and abolished all thoughts of him for a moment.

Lilliandil dropped her voice to a whisper, “For leaving Casablanca,”

“I see, I see,” he said, looking both ways before leading them to a table and sitting down.

Caspian and Lilliandil followed suit.

“Listen,” Ferrari said, leaning over the table, “I can get you one exit visa out of Casablanca. Only one. For the lady. Not two,”

“But both of us need to leave!” Caspian retorted.

He wouldn’t stay behind in this city, where Peter, handsome, infuriating Peter, was down the road. And especially when so much was depending on his escape from Casablanca. 

“I’m afraid I only have one,” Ferrari said, shaking his head, “There’s nothing I can do,”

“Are you sure?” asked Lilliandil.

“I’m afraid so,” He paused, “but I’d try your luck with Peter— whom I assume you already know. Word has it that the two letters of transit Scrubb had stolen, signed by the General, and unable to be rescinded or retracted, weren’t on him when he was arrested. I’d venture he left them with Peter. Two letters straight to Lisbon,”

“Peter?” Caspian repeated blankly. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Peter, especially when he had made it very clear he didn’t want to see him ever again. 

“Yes,” Signor Ferrari confirmed, “I believe that’s all I can do for you. Unless, of course, one of you wants to stay behind,” he added, getting up.

Caspian and Lilliandil exchanged looks.

“Thank you, well,” Caspian said, getting up and shaking his hand, “We’ll have to be going,”

“Of course,” he answered, “I wish you luck. Especially with Peter, he  _ is  _ a difficult man, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” Caspian muttered.

The entire way to the hotel, Caspian’s mind was preoccupied less with the exit visas and more with him. Peter.

And the exit visas and all his hopes and dreams for America, all of those roads, the road that had led him from Marseilles to Oran to Casablanca, had led him here, to  _ Peter’s Cafe Anglais.  _ To Peter himself.

___________________________________________________

Caspian wandered through the linen bazaar, a cigarette between his fingers as he contemplated his escape from Casablanca.

No exit visas. No way out.

Unless he were to ask Peter. Which was the last thing he wanted to do.

The bazaar was full of clattering and loud haggling, and it was beginning to make his head pound. He thought about turning around and going back to the hotel when suddenly he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Peter walking in his direction. Why was he here? 

He quickly dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel, suddenly becoming very interested in the tablecloth at the stall right next to him, feeling the lace between his fingers, trying to compose himself, hoping he’d walk right by him. He had probably conjured him from his imagination by thinking about him so incessantly, he thought, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

“Only seven hundred francs!” the vendor in front of the tablecloth stall exclaimed, “you won’t find a treasure like this in all of Morocco! Perhaps for a lady at home?”

“You’re being cheated,” he heard Peter’s voice from behind him.

“A friend of Peter’s!” the vendor said, switching out his seven hundred francs sign with one that read ‘two hundred francs’, “For friends of Peter, only two hundred francs!”

“Walk with me,” Peter asked.

“I won’t,” he said, not moving his attention from the tablecloth.

“Only  _ one hundred  _ francs for the tablecloth!” the vendor compromised.

“I’m not interested,” he said politely, looking up to the vendor. 

The vendor looked distraught as he dashed back inside, perhaps to find more interesting tablecloths to show him for lower and lower prices.

“I was in no condition to speak to you when you called on me last night,” Peter said finally, interrupting his thoughts about tablecloths.

“It doesn’t matter,” Caspian answered, looking to his left as if he might make a mad dash away from him. But he couldn’t do that.

“Why did you come? To tell me why you ran out on me at the train station, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” he said, setting down the tablecloth and meeting his eyes, “What happened to throwing me into the Atlantic if I ever spoke to you again?”

“As I said, I was in no condition to speak to you when you called on me last night,”

“And you are now?” he deadpanned.

“You can tell me now,” Peter answered, his gaze hard, “I’m reasonably sober now, at least,”

“I don’t think I will,” Caspian said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“And why not?”

“I’ve seen what happened to you,”

He snorted. “And what is that?”

“The Peter I knew in Paris, I could tell him. But not you. You hate me, and I’ll be leaving Casablanca soon and we’ll never see each other again,” he gritted his teeth.

“So it’s all my fault now,” he shrugged, “How pleasant. It always is, isn’t it?” H They stood in silence for a moment. “Why did you run out on me? Because you couldn’t take it?” he mused, “You knew what it would be like, hiding all the time? Was it easier to just leave?”

“You can believe that if you want,” he replied, jutting his chin up.

“Well,” he said, “You know where to find me. I’ll be expecting you,”

______________________________

“Peter,” said Susan, “Pass the potatoes,”

Peter didn’t seem to hear as he continuously rocked a fork back and forth on the table.

Edmund and Lucy exchanged looks.

If he were sullen and hostile everywhere else it was never here. At least  _ here  _ he’d return to a semblance of his regular self. How long had it been since he’d been his regular self? 

Edmund could guess what he was so enraptured in thought about, and probably with great accuracy. Fighting a vague sense of irritation, he leaned over the table and grabbed the bowl. Peter didn’t notice.

“Here are the potatoes,” he said, passing them to Susan. He glanced over to Lucy again.

“Peter,” Susan repeated, “Peter!”

“Yes,” he answered, snapping up, “What’s going on?”

“Are you doing alright?” Lucy asked, hesitating. “After–”

“I’m doing spectacularly,” he interrupted, spearing a potato with his fork with such force that the entire table shook, “Why would you ask?”

“No reason,” she mumbled.

Edmund had known Peter’s heart had never been in Casablanca. It never would be. But they would live and die in Casablanca because it was what must be done, and perhaps he’d grow less cynical over time.

But it would never happen now. All because  _ Caspian  _ had to show up, and what were the odds of that? Out of all the gin joints in all of the world. Perhaps fate truly did have it out for their family, bringing them away from home and locking them up in Casablanca to never return, and perhaps this was the final nail in the coffin and some divine power was looking down on them and laughing.

“You don’t wish to speak to us about anything?” Susan questioned.

“Nothing at all,” he muttered, “I’ve got nothing to speak of,”   
“He’s just emotionally repressed,” Edmund said pleasantly, “It’s nothing, though,”

“Edmund!” Susan chided.

Peter had somehow, in the meanwhile, slipped back into his daze, and wasn’t paying attention anymore.

Edmund felt faintly angry at him, but more so at Caspian, though he couldn’t pin whether it was for leaving or coming back. It would’ve been better if he had just stayed. He was going to ruin everything. Or maybe he already had.

______________________________

The  _ Cafe Anglais  _ was crowded, as always. That was no surprise. Although Caspian severely wished not to be here, he had to ask about the letters, their last hope.

“There!” Lilliandil said sharply, nudging his arm, “There he is!”

“There he is,” Caspian repeated blankly.

“Excuse me!” she said, pulling him through the crowd, “Monsieur Pevensie!” Lilliandil called, “Could we speak to you?”

He glanced behind him and noticed her. Confusion flashed across his face, replaced by irritation, and finally a neutral expression.“Of course,” he replied, glancing over to Caspian briefly, “What about?”

“Could we talk some other place?” Caspian said hesitantly, “It’s a bit confidential,”

“I see,” he nodded, “Come to my office,” he said, leading them to the back.

“I assume this is about the letters of transit?” he said, sitting down in a chair and lighting a cigarette, “no need to dance around it,”

“It is,” Caspian said.

“It seems everyone in Casablanca thinks I have them,” Peter said dryly, “It seems I’ll never be lonely as long as everyone thinks so,”

“Do you?” Lilliandil leaned forward.

Peter didn’t say anything in response.

“Suppose we proceed under the assumption that you have the letters,” Caspian said, uncrossing his legs and sitting straight up.

“Suppose we do,” Peter answered, not giving anything away.

“Are you enough of a businessman to accept a hundred thousand francs?”

“I don’t accept it,”    
“Two hundred thousand francs,” he insisted.

“You could offer me a million francs if you’d like,” he leaned back, “I’ll never sell the letters to you,” No amount of money could make him hand over the letters to him, not as long as he lived.

“You must know how important it is that we leave Casablanca,”

“I don’t, actually,” he replied. He had never told him. He had never even told him why he ran out in Paris. Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “I assume we’re done here?” he added.

“There must be some reason you won’t let us have them,” Lilliandil pleaded.

“There is,” he said pleasantly, “I suggest that you ask your husband,”

“Peter—” Caspian began, his brows furrowing.

“There’s no need,” he interrupted, leaving the office.

_____________________________________________________________

Caspian scanned the street as he drew the shades of the window, and slumped into the armchair. Lilliandil stood across the room in silence, wringing her hands. He knew there was much to be said, but he didn’t want to hear it.

She hesitated.“So there’s absolutely nothing we may do to come in possession of those letters?”

“Ask your husband,” she murmured under her breath, “What have you done to wrong him?” she asked, “I was under the impression you had been great friends,”

Great friends, indeed.

She was always so kind and gentle. Peter hadn’t been kind and gentle to him in a long time. He scolded himself at the thought. Why was he always thinking about him? This was ridiculous.

“Caspian, dear,” she said once more, slowly, “What happened in Paris?”

“Nothing,” he answered mechanically.

“There’s nothing you wish to tell me?”

“We parted on most amicable terms. I don’t know,” he shrugged, lying through his teeth, “truly,”

Silence.

“I love you very much, my dear,”

“Yes,” he said, barely able to speak, “Yes, I know. Lilliandil— Whatever I— will you believe that I, that I—”

“You don’t even have to say it.” she said softly, “I’ll believe,” She kissed him on the cheek, “Goodnight, then,” she added, getting up.

“Goodnight,” he repeated. 

In a moment he suddenly felt guilty. She had never done anything but trust him and he— 

“Lilliandil!” he called, standing up quickly.

“Yes?” she said turning around.

He hesitated as his sudden bravado left him. He sat back down, “Nothing,” he said faintly. A thought popped into his head. “I have matters to attend to,” he said immediately, standing back up and pulling his coat on, “I’ll be back soon,”

It was dark as he started down the steps, as rain began to drizzle.


End file.
